


Zahar

by JustaGirl (SerendipitousSong)



Series: Death Comes [4]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Arranged Marriage, Baby Dwarves, Battle of Azanulbizar, F/F, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Fíli as Thorin's Son, Ones, Post-Sack of Erebor, Pre-Sack of Erebor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-26
Updated: 2017-11-23
Packaged: 2018-09-22 00:03:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9572837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SerendipitousSong/pseuds/JustaGirl
Summary: They met on Durin's Day, during trade season when she'd arrive with her father from Ered Luin, selling her wares and attending all the extravagant parties a lord's daughter would.They saw each other in passing on the long road to the West, into the vast mountain range separating them from Eriador, starved and wan and in need of aid.They caught glimpses during the long battle to recover the great realm of Khazad-dum, covered in orc blood and surrounded by death and bitter depression, hoping they'll see the next sunrise.They stood close during a bitter winter, and many bitter winters after, side by side while their people struggled to survive and prosper.And finally, at the end of it all, they'll see each other again, if only for a moment.





	1. One Hundred and Thirty Years

The filthy blade passed through his chest, and Thorin Oakenshield watched Azog's face contort in exhausted triumph. But he would not celebrate long; Thorin retaliated in kind, severing the Pale Orc's head from it's shoulder, and the body went tumbling to the ground.

Somewhere far away there was a desperate hobbit shouting, crying out his name, but the ice was strangely warm, his limbs cold and lifeless. Fiárin, his beloved Fíli, was screaming for him to hold on, just hold on _Adad_ , but Thorin was far, far away. Blue eyes scanned the sky above, noticing rather belatedly that the eagles had arrived to turn the tide of this near massacre. Hands slapped at his face, that same voice still pleading for him to hold on _Adad_ , please don't leave me, I still need you, I'm not ready _Adad_ , please! -- but when Thorin turned his heavy head to shush him gently, he saw _her_ in his face. Blue eyes, blonde hair, a dirty face covered in the filth of battle.

How his heart swelled with pride. His son, his golden son, so much like his mother.

" _Adad_!" Fíli sobbed now, blue eyes welling up with tears, and yet more falling into his beard. "Please. The Eagles have come, we've won! We won--" his words choked him, causing Thorin to raise a hand up to brush against Fiárin's cheekbone. The blonde closed his eyes and cradled the bloodied hand to his cheek, whispering incoherently.

Or maybe Thorin was succumbing to death. Either way, he stated adoringly at Fiárin. His son -- his son! How he loved him, how he loved them all. His Company, as good as family, as well as the family he has left behind. Will leave behind. Erebor was reclaimed! Fíli would be king in his stead; Fiárin, son of Thorin II Oakenshield, King Under the Mountain, and he was so proud.

Darkness crept into the edges of his vision, closing in, framing the face of Fiárin, the faces of his love and the little one safe at home.

And then his life flashed before his eyes.

 

_One Hundred and Thirty Years Ago..._

Durin's Day. A celebration renown far and wide, from the northern-most tip of Ered Mithrin to the southern border of Gondor. From the Sea of Rhûn to the Grey Haven, the Free Peoples of Middle Earth travelled for months in summer to attend the festivities. Even elves took tours of the vast mountain and stayed in the glorious stone city of Dale. Traders from Esgaroth down on the Lake became rich and their wares flowed all over the world.

Durin's Day.

A couple of pairs of blue eyes scanned the crowd from under a canopy. Customers wandered to and fro, scrutinizing every vendor and shop, but in the heat of midday they often just chose one to escape the sun.

The dwarrowdam fanned herself furiously. Dressed simply in a pale, loose tunic and brown breeches, she was nearly identical to her father beside her. Both a striking yellow blonde, like the sunlight bearing down on them all, and oceanic eyes that reflect a cloudless sky. A rare combination. A lovely one, too, if he did say so himself. And she had a diamond shaped face -- even rarer. So much beauty in one girl.

Thorin was caught the moment they met eyes from across the square.

She paused her fanning, eyes wide. He felt his heart catch fire within him. Right at that moment they were the only two in the world. People ambling slowed to a stop around them, the birds' chirps drawing out and turning low, and his vision blurred until all he could see was _her_. Mahal, he could hear her heartbeat speeding up alongside his own, until they leapt together and slowed into synchronicity.

As quickly as it had begun, it was over. People resumed their browsing and chattering, the sounds of nature mixing with thousands of voices.

Thorin wanted to hear her's.

Sun-bronzed skin flushed pink in her cheeks as she watched him approach. Naturally, her gaze flew to his braids and beads. His beard was barely coming in quickly, yet not long enough to clasp. Her chest stilled for a moment, processing the information, but when she puzzled it together her eyes about popped out of her head.

"Prince Thorin! Zacri, son of Zanak, at your service!" her father confirmed for her. She followed his bowing gesture. "This is my daughter, Zahar."

He smiled gratefully at the stout dwarf. "Well met, Lord Zacri," he responded, "for you are one and the same?"

Zacri smiled broadly. "Aye, the same!" He waved a hand at the beautiful pottery under the large canopy. "Browsing, or escaping the sun, my Prince?

Thorin's mouth twitched at the jovial manners of the vendor. "Actually, I am curious to know why a famous jeweller is selling pottery." He strode between the aisles holding delicate dishes. "You are well known for your gorgeous necklaces, Lord Zacri."

Zacri's chest puffed up in pride. He answered, "I am not selling my own work, Prince Thorin!"

A strong, gentle voice spoke up from behind the counter, where Thorin hadn't noticed the lass had retreated to. "We are selling mine."

He turned toward her voice, breath stuck in his throat. Her gaze went right through his skin, into his heart, into his soul, and Mahal hold his heart still, for whatever she found there made her grin from ear to ear. If he bad been choking before, he was strangled now.

He could feel the stare of Lord Zacri boring into his back, but he had eyes only for her.

"My mother loves fine china," he stuttered, pointing helplessly at the plates.

She laughed. Mahal, she laughed.

"Buy some for her then!" She was teasing now, too!

He nodded. "Alright."

She -- Zahar -- stepped out from behind the counter, kissed her father on the cheek, and began to lead him through the aisles. It turned out she had organized them in alphabetical order from front to back, based on the names of each product, and then from left to right by price. Each lettered section was in color order, heaviest on bottom shelves, lightest on top. The whole system was incredibly specific, obviously manned by her alone for all the pride she took at his confusion.

"Makes it harder to steal, and easier for me to note down what has been bought for restocking purposes." Her sweet smile made him nervous.

"My mother would love you," Thorin blurted for no reason. Immediately, his cheeks reddened, amd he coughed at her toothy grin. "Er... em..."

Her laugh would be the death of him. "Let's start by buying her a tea set, then."

Yep, he was long gone. He had flown far away and landed right around her pinky finger.

And oh Mahal, the lass knew it.

 

They parted ways after she wrapped, packaged, and addressed his purchases to the Royal Treasurer of Erebor. Zacri was stroking his beard thoughtfully. Thorin decided he needed to go. He'd dallied long enough.

Before he left, though, he took her hand, still plump from childhood, and kissed the palm -- a gesture of respect for a craftmaster -- and abruptly took his leave.

Her pinkened cheeks made him squirm.

Into the heat ofafternoon he went, searching for the fighting pits where he could find his father. It would be most prudent for Thrain to know that his heir had found his One.

There would be much to speak about.

Winding through the much lessened crowd, Thorin ran through his father's instructions once again. _Take Dís to the market square on King's Boulevard and Tinsle. Stop by the Jeweller's Guild Hall in Dale to pick up Amad's present, it's on the left of the bell tower in the very center of the city. And_ do not _forget to come by the pits! Frerin's first tournament and all!_ It would be well if he could remember exactly where the turn into the city center was on Tinsle. Was it before or after passing Girion's Gate?

He made an executive decision to turn onto the wide street of Girion's Gate, where the homes of Dalish nobles lined the road up into the vast Halls of Dale. Perhaps he could subtly get directions.

The smooth cream stone and red clay roof tiles was exotic to his eyes, so used to the green mountain stone and heavy carvings of Erebor; a cavernous palace with many halls and alleys, whole squares and districts nestled beneath solid stone. Here, however, all was exposed to the elements, built to last in the way of Men. Sturdy shutters to keep out the weather, sun, and prying eyes; foundations laid on the mountain's roots, as strong as Erebor herself; white stone quarried from deposits by the Long Lake of Esgaroth.

Such beauty he has seen today.

It didn't change that fact that he was utterly lost.

A turn appeared on his right, and he ditched the crowded Gate eagerly, hoping to locate the pits swiftly. Whatever his Adad had bought for Amad could wait a few hours until Frerin was done waving around a short sword.

The lane was called Zion, and lo and behold, it led straight from the Gate into Dale's largest square in the center of the city, complete with bell tower and Jeweller's Guild Hall. A large, gorgeous oak tree -- no doubt his age -- stood before the tower.

And under it was the mile long line for entrance into the vast fighting pits, dug into the earth far behind the Halls of Dale. Dwarrow, Men, and Elves alike waited in companionable excitement, coins grasped in their fists for betting. The jolly sight made Thorin smile...

...until he spotted his grandfather -- hounded by his personal guard -- approaching. Even from afar, Thorin could see the excess gold clinking in his beard. Nonetheless, be swallowed his disdain. Love for his grandfather trumped hate for the dragon-like affliction, and he accepted the embrace of the old dwarf.

"Thorin! Where have you been? Your father is waiting for you, and have you fetched that trinket for your mot--" Thror paused, staring into his eyes. Thorin tried to look away but he was not quick enough, and even still, the King under the Mountain placed his hands on his heir's shoulders, forcing him to focus forward. Thorin squirmed under the intensity of the blue-eyed gaze.

"What is that look for, Thorin?" His tone was much gentler than the gruffness of before. "What has happened?"

One of the king's shadows stepped forward. A healer, by the braids in his long moustache. "Is the prince in need of aid, my king?"

Thorin continued to stare into his grandfather's eyes, finding the haze clearing out rather swiftly. Clarity reigned in Thror's mind.

For the moment.

"Nay," said the king, and waved a hand. "Give us a moment." And they were off to stand under a smaller tree, a ways from the hubbub. Thror kept his hand over Thorin's shoulder, a familiar gesture when about to let loose a long serious talk. For all that he was losing his mind, Thror, King under the Mountain, was no idiot.

"Grandfather, I--"

"What is her name?"

The quick bluntness threw Thorin for a loop. "Er... Zahar. Daughter of Lord Zacri, of Ered Luin," he added. His thoughts drifted to the works of beauty in her tent. "She is a potter."

Thror hemmed and hawed for a while, rolling the information over in his addled mind. His face held the same thoughtful look Lord Zacri had possessed. It made Thorin both nervous and excited, for he knew what such a revelation could mean. Mahal, he could hear the clanging in his personal forge as he crafted the perfect bead...

"We shall think on this at a later hour, my dear. Now," he swept a rough hand at the crowds of people, "now we shall celebrate this day." Thror placed his other hand over Thorin's heart, causing a warm rush of love to fill the young prince. "As well as all it had brought with the sun's light."

They moved towards the pits, entourage in tow, both able to think a little clearer.


	2. I Told My Whole World About You

“Thowin.”

Thorin ignored her. His bed dipped as a tiny body clambered up next to him. “Thowin.” Small hands slapped across his back, up and down his spine. “THOWIN!”

 _Oh, forget it. She’ll never leave at this point_ , he thought.

"What, Dís?” He rolled over so he could eye her with a very unimpressed look. “What do you want?”

"Can I be here?” His sister looked ready to snuggle next to him whether he allowed it or not.

The hands were slapping his stomach. In the dim light of a single candle, Dís’ round little eyes beheld him as steadily as the green stone around them. They were just as vivid. And, unfortunately, they were doing that _thing_. The thing where he can't say no and aggh, stop it, Thorin _resist!_ _RESIST_ …

"In,” he stated simply, flipping open the sheets and comforter, and she wiggled around until they were enveloped in warmth. “ACK! Get your cold feet away from me, Dís!”

"Sowy.”

Oh stop with the eyes…

He groaned in defeat, but while she immediately slammed her icy toes into his thighs, he couldn’t help but hope she stayed this little forever. Small, cute, and though manipulative, she was _endlessly_ adorable. Even with her thrice-damned cold feet.

Quiet swept over the chamber as their breathing fell into a rhythm. In, out. In out. Thoughts were laid to rest, and both dwarf children wandered back and forth between wakefulness and slumber. Thorin had just began to slip into dreamrest when the mattress shifted.

"Thowin?” Her voice was thick with sleepiness. “Why didn’t you get _Amad’s_ present?”

Thorin cringed despite his sleep addled mind. The scolding he’d gotten from his father had been cut short by Thrór, but the disappointed looks had disheartened him. Even after returning home -- Thráin having retrieved the trinket himself -- Thorin found himself on the business end of his father’s rants over duty and obedience, which had spurned a confused Princess Diza to rescue her son. The ensuing row was filled with her questions and her husband trying to backpedal. It was all for naught, but Diza accepted the gift in spite of the Crown Prince’s wrath, for Thráin was not known for subtlety.

And through it all, Thorin himself had remained silent, still seated on the bench in front of the grand fireplace in the Royal Living Chambers, wincing at the barbs being hurled by his parents. Blue eyes and yellow hair haunted him.

Considering Dís had no doubt heard the whole kerfuffle anyway, he decided to speak truthfully.

"You must keep this a secret, alright?” He turned and stared at his baby sister. “Can you do that, Dís?”

She nodded, placing her hand over her heart in an oath. “I swear.”

Thorin took a breath and gathered his thoughts. When they were rallied, he spoke. “I met my One today.” Her gasp sounded delighted, and he held a hand up to halt her excited queries. “She didn’t seem to feel it was much as I, but I know she did. I could…” He touched his arm where she grasped it. “I could _feel_ it.”

Dís wriggled closer, if that were possible. Her stream of questions began with, “Is she bwootiful?” and Thorin grinned boyishly.

“Oh _yes_ , she is certainly beautiful! She looks like a foreign princess with a diamond shaped face. And her hair! Oh Dìs, you will love her hair; yellower and curlier than yours, true sunlight, and her skin is dark from the sun. I noticed it from far away and went over to see it closer, and the closer I stepped, the more beautiful she became! Oh! her eyes are like a smooth piece of the deepest sea glass, and shine just the same. As soon as she pinned me with them, I was done for. My life is both over and has barely begun.

“Her laugh is like the beating of the drums on Durin's Day, deep and loud and _rhythmic_ ; she walks as if she is swimming through air -- or maybe through time itself -- calmly, smoothly, with sure steps. Her eyes are alert as well. She seems incredibly smart. Maybe as smart as Balin.

“She is proud of her craft,” and here he gasped for air, then continued, “did I mention that she is a potter? She makes wonderful ceramics, from delicate tea sets to sturdy vases and heavy plate armor! Have you heard of that, ceramic armor?” Dís shook her head, still sucked in with rapt attention. Thorin breathed for a moment, wondering at which point of his speech his heart had begun to pound with excitement.

“Zahar -- er, _Lady_ Zahar, that is. She is a Broadbeam Lady from Ered Luin -- showed me a bit of how it works. There are these vests, these leather vests, with pockets over the entire front and back. One only has to slip a thick ceramic plate into it, fasten the ties, and they are protected as with any mail. It is heavy, yes, but it does not drag so much and pinch as mail does.”

Finally taking a moment to breathe again, Thorin turned onto his side to face tiny little Dís. “Guess what.”

“What?”

“I bought a tea set for Amad with my forge money. I hope she’ll like it -- er, I hope she’ll _love_ it. I…” His words had run out.

Dís snuggled closer. “She sounds lovely,” she yawned, “but I want mail and a popper biggadine to that awful sounding vest.”

“ _Proper brigadine_ ,” he corrected automatically. “Enunciate the Rs."

The two shared a giggle, then tuned in to the creaking of the old stone door. They watched as familiar blue eyes very much like Thorin's peeked around the doorjamb, nearly covered by a frizzy mop of raven hair.

“‘Rin,” whispered Frerin.

Thorin just opened his blankets once more for his younger brother to slip in, and all three of the royal siblings snuggled together in combat against the first of many chilly winter nights.

 

 

 

“I'm truly sorry my dear, I'd hoped our belongings would be ready for our trek to the mountain,” Zacri glowered at the servants scrambling about the small manor, “but it seems we shall have to stay in Dale one last night before the ball.”

Zahar was only half listening, watching her personal handmaidens pack her trunks and stow them in a huge wagon pulled by Man-sized horses. This was the last Dwarven caravan from Dale to Erebor of the season, after which long-distance trade would come to a halt while winter spread her wings. Without the trade caravans from the Blue Mountains, Gondor, and Red Mountains there would be no need for many trips to and from the great city-state of Men. Not that Zahar really cared, for she'd be encased in the strong stone of the Lonely Mountain.

She stepped out from the shade of the porch, the huge manor behind her casting a dark shadow in the fading dusk. The yard was a controlled mess of servants loading up nonessentials, lugging endless trunks of gowns and tools. Ponies and horses were fed and watered for the night.

“ _Adad?_ ” Zahar wringed her wrists anxiously.

Zacri held up a hand to pause her as he looked over a map with Einar, his young apprentice. The lad was trying his hand at advising and showed a real knack for it. Despite his name, young Einar was no warrior; he was a pampered noble through and through.

“ _Adad_ .” She was at a loss for how to begin to put her thoughts into words. The day had been long. “ _Adad_ , please. I'd like a word.”

Those words snatched all of Lord Zacri’s attention away from his apprentice. The old dwarf swivelled on his heel and faced his daughter head on. “What is it, my dear?”

 _Poo, this is the part where I fumble for words_ , she thought bitterly. Instead, Zahar glanced nervously at the imposing image Erebor made in the falling darkness. Zacri followed her gaze… and began to laugh!

“Dearest daughter mine,” he practically hooted, “are you feeling nerves over the ball, or over meeting a certain _prince_ again!?” Zacri’s hands rose to hold his belly as he laughed at Zahar’s expense.

Zahar felt her face heat with embarrassment and ire, yet before she uttered a single protest, Lord Zacri yielded.

“Aye, my dear lass. I understand your heart. You know, I felt the same at my first ball in Ered Luin. I was to meet your mother for the first time as lovers there -- the pair of us had been betrothed at a young age -- but my hands shook and my heart raced. Though this ball was _supposed_ to be our first meeting as a courting couple, we had already been sneaking off at night--”

“Blessed axes of Mahal!” Zahar cried, face even redder, “do not say anything else!”

Zacri only laughed harder, his howls bellowing off the stone homes. “No no, you misunderstand, Zahar! We'd sneak out of the range and watch for falling stars in the sky together, and a few times we went swimming in a spring just east of our  settlement.” At this, Zahar uncovered her ears.

“Yes, we once tried to run off into the Wilds by ourselves, armed with an axe each and she, a bow. She was wearing the plate armor, and I simple mail. But you know that story by now, don't you?” Zacri stepped close to his only child and wrapped her in a sweet hug. “My wild Lady, and my wild child.”

Zahar felt her father’s lips on her head. “I was going to ask, if you had found your One before marrying _Amad,_ would you have married them instead?” She needed an answer to the question she'd pondered all her life, for though her father had sung praises to her mother, she wondered…

“No,” was the confident, solid answer. “I was deeply in love with your mother, Zahar.”

Lord Zacri held his daughter ever closer, knowing that the time he had left to do so was quickly running out.

“Though she was not my One, Gisela was the one for me.”


	3. To Think is to Discover

Thráin had a knack for unearthing the  _ real _ issues. For all that he held a reputation for being thick-skulled and coarse, those same attributes aided him in his search for the truth. They hid a shrewd, manipulative mind underneath the image of a brutish warrior prince.

His target? His very own son and heir, Prince Thorin II, third in line for the throne of Durin, and master of bottling up his emotions.

The task at hand would not be easy, especially in the wake of such a family dividing argument as the one between himself and his wife the night of Durin's Day. However, Thráin thought, there was not a force in the world which could stop his meddling, nor could any one person succeed in hindering him. The Crown Prince would discover, one way or another, who or what had made his viligant son into a babbling idiot.

His first clue found him in the main ballroom _. _ It was here where the transformation had most likely taken place; Thorin had been his usual self before attending the annual Feast of  _ Gamutgartazd _ but afterwards he had somehow been replaced by a red faced, bumbling lad with round eyes.

Thráin stomped about the Hall of Glass, his steps echoing off the cavernous walls, and scrutinized every dwarf running to and fro cleaning, carrying furniture, and waking hungover nobles. Shafts of sunlight drifted in from the adjoined balcony looking over the side of the mountain, and  _ there _ , just hidden from view of anyone but the sharp eyes of the Crown Prince, was a scrap of bright green ribbon. Thráin made his way through the throngs of servants, ignoring queries and quietly bid good mornings, only stopping when he stood beside a massive planter.

There, caught on the branches, emerald green ribbon waved in the winter breeze, thread through with the faintest veins of golden wire.

Snatching it up, Thráin gazed out over the breaking dawn to the east and struggled to recall a noble lass in emerald green. There had been many, for the Feast of  _ Gamutgartazd  _ was widely attended by notables of all seven kingdoms each year. Old lines and new came together in song, celebrating a new year while simultaneously hunkering down for the shut-in months. Erebor was a huge mansion of dwarves, from miners and glass blowers to professors and scribes. Pinpointing  _ one _ lass out of countless thousands might prove impossible!

Just the way Thráin II liked his odds. Impossible.

A sly smirk spread across his face, and the dwarf spun on his heel to return to his chambers; Diza would be awake by this hour, and none too pleased to find her bed empty of his warmth. Thráin would need her aid to canvas through each family, each line, and discover which young dam who had captured the eye of the seemingly emotionless automaton that was Thorin. After all, she wasn't leaving anytime soon.

They had  _ all winter _ .

 

  
  
Dawn had broken over the mountain many hours ago now, and the late morning sun found Thorin in his school room, accompanied by various other Ereborian noble dwarflings. Today, lessons were cut short due to the ongoing celebration, and Professor Cephas had planned a brief exam before classes let out for the season.

In an uncharacteristic slip of his mind, Thorin had quite forgotten to study his notes or visit the library! Now he could not recall a single word of  _ Dragon-Helm, _ the fifth part of the  _ Beleriand _ epic saga, which Thorin knew very little of by heart, and now he stood to fail this exam, or very nearly so. Something about… a great battle of tears? a dragon? There had been a death or two at some point, he was sure.

_ Well _ , thought Thorin as he put his quill to parchment,  _ I suppose a mine is only as great as it's yields. _

Just as he'd resigned himself to another grueling talk with his father about duty and learning, Professor Cephas stood from his desk and raised his palm in a halt. All the students put down their pens, not having had a chance to write anything down yet, and waited on what he had to say. The professor looked at each of his students one by one, and then -- a merry grin split his face! “How about we go for a hike instead of taking lessons this morning, lords and ladies?” He grabbed his cloak from the rack and slipped it over his head. “Go on now! Run home and fetch your cloaks, and meet at the front gate in an hour! I hear the weather outside is pleasant enough for a walk!”

“‘Saved by the bell,’ eh Prince Thorin?” whispered his peer, a young dam named Adom-Jorda but called ‘Red’. “I suppose the professor did not wish to be stuck in here either.”

Thorin  _ hmph’d _ at that, then quickly composed himself. As they all scrambled to gather their supplies and exit the classroom, Thorin had a sudden sense of foreboding in his heart. It came without explanation or reason, and weighed heavy in his chest. It also must have shown on his face, for Red gave a double take and thumped him hard in the shoulder.

“Quiet you!” she shouted.

“I didn't say any--” he was rewarded with another swat that knocked his satchel out of his hands. “Hello!?”

“Hello yourself, you think too loud you stone-faced brute!” Red tore across the class, and aimed a glare at Thorin. “I'll be seeing you in an hour, then! And Thorin,” she said.

Thorin gathered his things up quickly and followed her out into the vast Halls of Learning. “What is it, Red?”

“No brooding during our outing, eh? Just have fun for once, pull the stick out your arse or whatever.” They caught up with their peers, and the large group of excited dwarflings made their way home. “It's the Durin's Day celebration, for Mahal’s sake! Have a bit of cheer!”

Fidgeting, Thorin gave her a sideways glance. “I'll try, only I have a bad feeling. As if we should be prepared for… for  _ something _ . I can't put my axe to it, but I know--”

“A mine is only as good as it's yields,” Red stated sagely. “What have your  _ bad feelings  _ ever yielded? Hmm? Nothing, but you  _ have  _ had to pass wind on occasion,  that's the only thing.” She laughed at Thorin's shocked expression.

“R-Red!”

Oh goodness! Why would she say such a thing? And in public too! But she only guffawed louder, and it rang off the green stone of Erebor’s halls.

At the end of the Hall, the path became an intersection, with carriages being pulled by strong dwarrow and pedestrians strolling on raised walkways. The lower levels could be seen now, over the edges of the intersection, and more carriages loaded with belongings rolled along. Voices echoed, footsteps thumped, and far off ringing of miners deep in the chasm created the usual cacophony. Blessed Erebor, a fine mansion; home to many hundreds of thousands of Durin's folk who made their earnings underneath, the jewel of the East.

_ No longer the only jewel _ , he thought, and again he was plagued by images of yellow hair, but this time green silk found it's way into the daydream.

The group parted ways at the intersection and journeyed on home as quick as could be in the high traffic of the Upper Halls. Thorin headed up Long Lane, into the Royal Halls of Erebor where the royal family’s apartments were situated. Green stone was shot through with silver veins, and the Royal Gate was carved with the Crest of Durin. Great tapestries hung from the Gate portraying the awakening of Durin the Deathless under Mount Gundabad, and the great many battles he fought. Windows and balconies and terraces peeped out from the beautifully carved walls.

Having past the age of sixty some years ago, Thorin had begun inhabiting his own apartment. It was a tradition meant to build independence, but it brought the added feature of getting him out of his parents’ way when they were in a foul mood. Three children were a blessing to one couple, but in a hot tempered family such as that of Crown Prince Thráin and his wife Princess Diza, three children were also very irritating.

Thorin arrived at the door to his apartment, and unlocked it. Entering, he jogged up the stairs to the second floor, where his quarters were. He flung his satchel onto a cushioned stool just for that and went through the parlor, small kitchenette, and study into his bedroom.

A large wardrobe stood in a far corner, which Thorin searched for his winter cloak. Inside, he also found a scarf and grey knit jumper, the thick jumper he used in place of a leather jerkin. The scarf, also made from cables of yarn, he wrapped around his neck and ears, and Thorin snatched an extra pair of stockings as well. His cloak went over it all, and then he traversed the mess of laundry and parchment back towards the kitchenette. There was a small basket his mother’d left for his post-lesson snack, and the young Durin snatched it up to nibble on during the hike. Set to go, Thorin nearly stumbled down the steps in his haste -- right into his siblings.

Dís and Frerin had the awful habit of bothering people, but not just that; both made not a sound when they entered a room or, in this case, their brother's apartment. Needless to say, Thorin was a bit startled.

“ _ GAHH! _ ” he screamed. His snack fell to the ground but thankfully didn't burst open. “Can't the two of you make some noise!?”

Frerin looked at Dís. Dís looked at Frerin. Then they both looked at Thorin. “Aren't you supposed to be at lessons?” they asked simultaneously.

Thorin, who was now thoroughly shaken, picked up his basket and shoved past them. “First off, don't do that--”

“Do what?”

“That! That  _ thing _ where you speak at the same time! My class is going for a hike, and anyways -- shouldn't you two be in lessons today as well?” They followed him out into the Royal Halls, and watched as he locked up.

Frerin snorted, “Yes. But I skipped!”

Dís just shrugged. “My pwofwessor is having a baby.”

Thorin realized that his pesty siblings were following him towards the front gate and whirled upon them angrily. “Fine then! Do as you please, but let me be! I've got permission to leave the mountain, but you haven't, so you'd best be staying here. Why can't you follow Balin around, he's probably drowning in parchment in the library all by himself again; or better yet,” he pushed Frerin in a fit of frustration, “go to class!”

Frerin stumbled back and fell into Dís, who was small and couldn't hold herself steady under his weight. Both youngsters crashed to the ground, a tangle of limbs and fabric.

Thorin whirled back around, set on going on his way when he heard sniffles behind him. He glanced back, and spotted little Dís rubbing at her forehead, and Frerin beginning to cry. His heart clenched, but just then, the half hour bell chimed throughout the mountain, warning him of the time. Instead of helping the duo to their feet, he ran with all his might away, determined not let his emotions get to him. He schooled his face and pushed down the guilt at hurting both his younger brother and sister, but soon the excitement of playing in the cold wind outside overcame and Thorin forgot all about it. He made it to the front gates just in time, and took his place beside Red. From there, Professor Cephas took a headcount, then proceeded with leading his class out of the gates and into the sun.

  
  
  
  


Pale winter sun pierced Zahar’s eyes as they rode towards the looming visage to the north. Rich forest on all sides provided a little shade, but nonetheless, she shielded her face. Pine wafted through the air, as did a raven here and there, and the last bits of autumn bled away with the wind. Durin's Day had been curiously warm, but now it seemed the weather was back on track, having turned from sweltering to chilly in the span of one night.

During the Feast of  _ Gamutgartazd,  _ the air had been crisp, not too warm yet not too cold. Fresh, more like. She'd ventured away from the throngs in search of some peace,  and had found it on a bench overlooking the glittering city of Dale in the distance. Farther south, she could make out the Long Lake, as well as shining Esgaroth on the water.

And then she'd been joined by a handsome prince who brought her a bloom off one of the arrangements nearby.

He'd flushed red as the rose he handed her, and spluttered over her gown and hair. The gown itself was not anything spectacular; just a pale green high-necked slip with puffy sleeves under an emerald overlay, cinched at her waist with a silver belt. But the compliments he'd paid to the completely out-of-style sash draped over her belt and down the front endeared him to her even more so than those he paid to her own workmanship. Zahar knew many noble dams her age kept up with the latest trends of form fitting bodices and voluminous sleeves, and that the Prince must be surrounded by high fashion. Seeing such a plain gown must have been strange to his eyes… his beautiful, pale eyes like the ice over Ravenhill…

Zahar shook herself and focused on remembering the ball. She'd opted to attend in an old gown of her mother's, instead of a fashionable silver and white item with lavender ribbons and smoke sapphires across the collar. Either way, she'd said, she'd be making a statement. Vintage, or high fashion? It didn't matter to her what image she gave off. Zahar had wished to honor her mother -- Mahal guard and keep her -- by donning her very own handiwork for her first formal ball.

Hopefully she had worn it as well as her own mother had.

Hopefully her mother was proud.

Her father certainly was. His daughter, One to the stoic Prince Thorin II, son of Thráin II; and she had earned the hefty title of “Intermidiate” at the extremely young age of fifty, and now apprenticed in the Claymaster’s Guild of the northern Blue Mountains. She was intelligent, learned, and beautiful -- everything a noble dam ought to be.

So why was she so uncertain of her future?

If all went according to her father's wishes, she'll be married into the line of Durin in a mere forty years. She’ll be a princess!

It was a horrifying notion. The faraway promise of marital bliss was clouded by one simple fact: a princess had duties.

Oh, a noble lady has duties as well. Marriage, of course, unless she marries her craft _.  _ Bringing honor to her family and to her line were important, as well as (because she now stood as the matriarch of clan Broadbeam) delegating, trading, and negotiating between her’s and the other six clans. That all seemed so much…  _ easier _ . She'd been prepared to take over after her father in trade for now,and then gradually inch her way into Clan Leader.

Now, however, there was the enormous possibility of being married off to a distant, stoic, handsome, funny, bumbling… dark-haired… handsome… blue eyed…

Handsome…

... _ prince _ .

“Dear me,” she muttered, “I hardly know him.” When Zahar truly thought about it, Prince Thorin was hardly out of childhood himself! If she was a mere fifty-five, he must be, what, sixty? Sixty-five? Perhaps seventy, but that seemed to be a stretch for all that he was tall and dark, with a long enough beard to plait into a single braid. A fine braid it was, too…

“Mahal have mercy, my dear, can you think any louder?” Zacri elbowed her gently. “Thoughts have a habit of being writ across the faces of the unguarded, you know. Mind yourself!”

Zahar sighed. “I'm afraid.”

“Of what?”

“Well, of Prince Thorin, of course!” She glared at her father. “Who else?”

Zacri’s brows lowered in warning. “Mind your manners, dear, I only wished to draw you out of your thoughts. You have been rather blue these past few days. I would expect you to be, well,” he scratched his yellow beard.

“ _ Excited? _ ” Zahar offered. “ _ Ecstatic? Eager? _ Ready for marriage to a far off prince who lives across the world?” She felt her heart begin to pound. “A prince I know  _ nothing _ about? Who had a reputation for being callous, stern, emotionless, and rude?” Her hands began to shake, and she tugged her wrap tight around her shoulders. “Who is tall and dark, and handsome, and has the most lovely, palest,  _ intense _ eyes, and a sweet smile, even if it comes rarely. Whose laughter is like--”

“The beating of the drums on Durin's Day?” Zacri knew that look on his daughter's face and she knew it. He knew everything.

“Aye. That.” Zahar clutched the wool wrap ever closer across her bosom and shivered. Even in the bright afternoon sun the chill crept through her clothes. Layers of fur and wool over her woolen knit and warm travel dress still could not quite do the job.

“ _ Oh! _ but for a mug of coffee and warm fire!”

Zacri bellowed his laughter from his belly. “I'll drink to that, my dear -- and for this winter to be over, that you and I can retreat home to a rather warmer climate!”

Zahar felt her father drape another fur over her frame, knowing she was so unaccustomed to such frigid weather. In reality the air was not so cold, but to a lass from the southern reaches of the Blue Mountains, across the Havens, it was indeed frigid.

Mahal only knew how dwarrow from the Red Mountains coped.

In that moment, the path took a wide turn and there ahead, way in the distance but still within her sights, stood the great front gates and the statues to each side. The front of their caravan was still many miles away, yet Zahar felt in her heart that they were closing the distance all too swiftly.

Too soon. Too soon to be thinking of marriage and Ones and duty. She was fifty-five! Just beginning to crawl past childhood into adolescence, barely a blooming bud.

“Oh dear,” she muttered too quiet for Zacri to hear. “Oh dear oh dear  _ oh dear. _ ”


	4. We Are So Far and So Close

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spacing still needs some editing, sorry. Just needed to get this chapter out ASAP

Hardly a shaft of light pierced the dark chamber of King Thrór, son of Dain I, King Under the Mountain. Once he was in one of his moods, he was difficult to rouse. Most days he needed a giggle from his youngest grandchild, Dís, and other days…

 

He craved silence. And darkness. And gold.

 

Most days his spirit was one of cheer, for he was a jolly dwarf by nature. An ale, a lap full of dwarflings, and a good story were his desire in those times. Thrór would sit for hours while he listened to Thráin’s rants, Diza’s complaints, Thorin’s lessons, and Frerin’s schemes. All the while, little Dís would sit in his lap as he recalled stories of his late wife, Queen Audhild, who he had met in a minor skirmish between clans.

 

He loved them more than anything else in this life.

 

But today, amid the sweet memories of their babyhood and his lost love, he sat alone in the dark. The fire had long since gone out; he had not stoked it in the morning, nor had he allowed his personal servant to do so. The chamber was cold as death. Visions of gold made him colder.

 

In days such as this, Thrór craved nothing. He felt no hunger, felt no desire for his family. Voices turned to rusty hinges, laughter to shattering glass, gentle touches to burning fire. He had no patience for holding court for the citizens. He couldn't bear to speak with guildmasters, craftmasters, lords or ladies; there were many things on his mind these past few days. 

 

Seated in his heftily cushioned chair, Thrór recalled now the dream -- the  _ vision _ \-- he'd suffered which had turned his peaceful rest to fitful slumber. In his mind's eye, he beheld a tall dwarf, of a size to himself, with long wavy locks of dark ash brown and a shorn beard. His eyes were at once sorrowful and angered, as if he'd been severely wronged by one he held dear, and a long-held fury rested on his brow. In fact… he looked quite a bit like  _ Thráin _ …

 

The dwarf sat at a worn wooden table, ale in hand, in a house. A  _ house _ . By Mahal, Thrór had seen sunlight shining through a window! His clothing, once fine, was now threadbare and patched numerous times, and work stained.  _ Durin blue _ , Thrór registered. His feet were bare. Around him was an orderly kitchen, the single window, and mounted cupboards, also made of wood. Everything carried an air of shabbiness -- of poverty.

 

Thrór examined his memory further, and the next scene played out again.

 

As the dream dwarf gulped his ale -- an action so  _ familiar _ \-- two younger dwarrow entered the home. One had a long, ink black braid and piercing blue eyes like the first, but the third! How could Thrór have missed it!? Her hair may have been odd, this vision producing rich golden brown waves, but those green eyes! None but  _ one _ lass could possess them! They were the only thing in all Arda comparable to the rich stone of Erebor.

 

Thus, Thrór beheld the grown figures of his beloved grandchildren in his mind; Thorin chugging his ale, Frerin tracking mud, and little Dís swatting the both of them in frustration.

 

And then a second vision came to him.

 

Grown Thorin, once again dressed in mere rags, dragging in his kill while a young lad, a lad Thrór did not know, would  _ never _ know, burst from a proper home in a mountainside. The heavy door slammed open, and curls like palest gold whipped by as the dwarfling cried, “ _ Adad! Adad! _ ” Grown Thorin barely had time to wipe his hands of deer blood before they were full of dwarfling.

 

_ And behold… _

 

A beautiful lass with hair of spun sunlight, bright yellow and curly, the depths of the sea caught in her eyes, emerged as well, and she shared a funny smile with her husband. Her clothes were stained and old. Those same eyes that held the oceans were stormy and sad, but a flaming fire burned within her, and strength radiated from her. Her back was straight, her chin high. She was strong.

 

They were a fine pair, poor as they were.

 

Another vision took Thrór to grown Dís, a bit older, with a deep love in her heart. She sat at a sofa nursing a babe with dark hair. She was happy. She was also alone. She had only her babe and a tiny lad who lay at her feet napping for company in a home that reeked of loneliness.

 

Thror's last vision was horrific. A battlefield. Bloodshed. Rage and fury and revenge. Young Frerin, barely bearded and wet behind the ears, fighting for his life, for his love's, for  _ him _ …

 

Frerin was struck down, his sword arm having gone flying somewhere far beyond where Thrór could see in the thick of battle. Blue eyes flashed in pain, and with one fell strike from his adversary, that bright face went dark. He was gone.

 

All went truly dark in the chambers, for the king closed his eyes.

 

Thrór’s visions ended. He remained, in the dark, alone in his chambers, and wondered what horrid future he had just seen for his stouthearted Thorin, his sweetfaced Frerin, and his darling precious little Dís.

  
  
  
  


It was the way of dwarrow, that grandfathers would sometimes foresee their family's future. Yet another dwarven secret, passed from father to son as each generation came of age. No lady knew of it. Visions were a burden borne solely by menfolk, and were usually means for celebration as the fortunes of each family line grew more prosperous as the decades ran by.

 

Needless to say, King Thrór was disturbed by his own visions, late in coming. Immediately he rose from his solitude and lit the hearth, fanning until the ashes were roaring flames. Then the king went down to the front entrance of his apartment where, out on Long Lane, two guards and a runner were leaned against the wall chatting. He signalled the runner after glaring the guards into a straightened posture, and said, “Have my son meet me here in an hour. I've some things to discuss.”

 

The runner, a lad Thrór recognized as young Rílian, son of the mighty miner Kílian, replied, “M’lord, Prince Thráin is in a guild meeting. It will not be adjourned until--”

 

Thrór interrupted, “Well make it two hours then, lad! Go on! 

 

Rílian, ever the troublemaker, grinned devilishly. “What's innit for me, eh, O King?”

 

Thrór paused in shutting his door, and shot back, “A slice of Prince Frerin’s spicy lemon pound cake, hot out the oven.”

 

“With a glass of milk!”

 

“If you can shave it down to just the hour, I shall consider a glass of milk.”

 

“Done!” The two shook on it, left fists over their hearts.

 

“Like a river of gold lad --  _ swiftly, _ ” Thrór called.

 

Young Rílian sped his way through the mass of nobles, servants, carriages and guards ambling about the lane. As he was lost in the crowd, the King Under the Mountain returned to his chamber, and his chair.

 

His mind was a bit less hazy, but his heart was the darkest it had ever been.

  
  
  
  


“Penny for your thoughts?”

 

Red startled him out of his haze, waving a copper penny under his nose. It smelled freshly minted, and it's shine was that perfect  _ new penny shine _ that no amount of polishing can mimic.

 

He took it. “Depends. Can you keep a secret?”

 

Red plopped down beside Thorin, watching him watch the bustle of Dale from their class’s perch. The watery sun, so different from the yellow of two days prior, made her hair seem a deeper shade of auburn. In golden sun, it was like a forge at work -- warm, and fire bright. This moment, the strands were muted. Her face was slightly asymmetrical, one eye higher on her face than the other, as well as it being a bright green like the jade stones from the farthest eastern reaches. Pale and shiny, unlike the dark green of the Mountain. Her other eye was deep brown.

 

Both were focused on him, and he could feel her expectation heating his left cheek.

 

“Thorin, you know I can.”

 

He did. “Here, I have no need of this mere penny,” he sighed, passing the copper piece back into her warm hand. “It happened on Durin's Day, as I searched for Jeweller’s hall....”

 

Red leaned in. “Yes?”

 

The prince scrubbed his hand over his face. His peer -- see  _ only friend outside of the royal line _ \-- noted every hesitation and action.

 

“Oh get on with it, Thorin! You are dreadful, holding me in such suspense!”

 

He took a deep breath. “IfoundmyOneandsheisfromtheBlueMountains!”

 

Red blinked. “Er, pardon?”

 

“My One,” he repeated, after clearing his throat. “I met her on the third day of festivities, on Durin's Day, in her tent.”

 

Red stared at him, jaw hanging. For all that she was expressive and boisterous, Adomjorda was incredibly difficult to read.

 

_ Great, I've broken her. _

 

Thorin sighed as she continued her stunned silence. “Yes, and she is a Broadbeam. It's quite obvious, too. Her beard is wispy and she has no mustache at all, and her hair is yellow.” Still no response. “Guess who her father is, Red.”

 

Finally, she gathered herself enough to ask, “Who?”

 

Thorin grinned gleefully. “Lord Zacri of the Blue Mountains, leader of Clan Broadbeam, and Grand Master of his craft.”

 

Red eyes widened. “Indeed! She is practically a, a--”

 

“Hush,” Thorin shushed, “your voice carries. Now that you know what bothers me so, will you leave me to my thoughts?”

 

The young noble dam guffawed. “By the Maker, no, for now I'd like to know why this news bothers you at all! Should you not be dancing across the Great Hall’s floor, or waxing poetic under her window? What about your harp, Thorin? You speak with passion when you are of a mind, and your thoughts run long. Can you not write a song and play it to her?”

 

“Oh Jorda,” the young prince sighed, using the name he called her between themselves, “I would! But….”

 

“But?” she pressed.

 

Thorin drew in a shaky breath. “I find her father to be a mite scary.”

  
Red laughed once more at him in the chilly, pale sunshine. He couldn't help but join in, having forgotten both his guilt and his predicament.


End file.
